


Rhythm

by TiamatsChild



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:38:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiamatsChild/pseuds/TiamatsChild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a shape to Combeferre's weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon at makinghugospin at Livejournal, for their prompt: "I'm having a bad day which is only likely to get worse, so I would love to see some Enjolras/Combeferre schmoop. Them studying together in the library! Them discussing thinks of mutual interest? Them teasing each other! I love gen and slash, I just really want the two of them with each other and fluffy."

On Tuesdays Combeferre moved differently than he did the rest of the week. He was slower, more careful. He smiled less, and touched his right temple occasionally; three fingers in an arc around the curve of his skull and his thumb pressed into the thin skin just behind his cheek. He was overtired: he had not had enough to eat.

Enjolras never faulted him, would not fault him, would quell with a glance anyone who tried, but still – Combeferre knew he could not like it. On Tuesday Enjolras waited for him outside the dispensary where he worked into the evening, reading while he leaned against the wall. Tired as he was, Combeferre smiled when he stepped out the door and saw him, smiled as he gently pressed down on the spine of the book, tilting it ever so slightly forward, ready to catch it if he disrupted the balance of Enjolras’ hold. Smiled when Enjolras looked up to meet his eyes, that familiar line of thunder shadowing his brow. 

“I found a poem,” Enjolras said, lightning banished, tucked away for when he needed it again. “I wanted to say it to you. Are you coming with me tonight?” 

“I don’t think I’ll say much,” said Combeferre, “But yes, I believe I will.”

Enjolras nodded seriously, taking Combeferre’s arm with firm affection. “Then I will buy you dinner,” he said.

It was Combeferre’s turn to nod. “What was the poem you wished to say me?” he asked as they turned down the street towards the Café Musain.

“It’s Chinese,” Enjolras said. “Tu Fu. It’s about conscription. Here, I wrote it –” and he slid his book free and balanced it open again to where he had tucked a leaf of paper in the ditch of pages. He never once let his arm slide from Combeferre’s. “Wrote it here,” he said, and began. “At dusk I sought lodging at Shih-hao village, when a recruiting officer came to seize men at night. An old man scaled the wall and fled, his old wife came to answer the door-”

Combeferre listened as his friend spoke, steady and strong, warm with the old master’s compassion, sharp and clear with the conviction of the old woman he took for his subject. Their shoulders touched, their strides matched as if designed to do so by a benevolent universe, and Combeferre thought, “To hear him is as good as to feel his pulse.”

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The poem Enjolras has brought along can be found in its entirety (and in a more contemporary translation, the one I tucked in here is by Irving Lo) at http://www.chinese-poems.com/d12.html


End file.
